I arrived in the United States on May 28, 2023. It has been two years now, and while I have grown to love this new life, there are moments when my heart pulls me back to the vibrant streets of Malaysia. I spent thirteen years in Kuala Lumpur—my entire life from the day I was born until the moment we boarded that final flight. Most people see the end of the journey, but they don’t see the years of limbo—the rigorous, three-level process of blood work, background checks, and endless waiting. For thirteen years, my family lived in a state of suspended hope. In Malaysia, life was a beautiful tapestry of community and language. I can still close my eyes and hear the rhythmic sounds of the city and taste the familiar food of the neighborhood where I grew up. But the process of leaving was grueling. Every two to three months, I was back in a clinic getting my blood drawn. When COVID-19 hit Asian communities, everything became harder. I remember the terror of being fourteen years old, gripped by a seizure and being rushed to the hospital as the world outside was shutting down.

Though I am much better now, those memories of Malaysia—the joy of my friends and the weight of that medical uncertainty—remained woven into my spirit as we finally prepared to leave the only home I had ever known.

When I finally landed in the U.S., I started at Mill Creek Middle School. I was lucky to meet a teacher there who truly understood the invisible walls of language. English was not just a subject; it was a struggle. I didn't realize there were teachers who knew exactly how hard it is to untangle a new language, but she made the process feel like an invitation rather than a chore. She taught me the correct ways to speak and write, but more importantly, she made me feel that my struggle was seen. By the time I reached the ninth grade, I entered a classroom that changed my perspective on what it means to be a student. I realized that many people are ungrateful for the small things, but I also learned a much deeper lesson: just because you are a high school student does not mean you don’t have a voice. Whether you are a freshman or a senior, your grade level does not define your worth. My teacher taught me that your voice deserves to be heard as loudly as possible. She challenged me with a question that stayed with me: "If your voice is not heard, who is going to hear it?"

I truly felt the weight of that during my first year at Kent-Meridian. Standing at a book release event, I looked around and realized that I was part of something bigger. I saw a teacher who cared for every student as if they were her own, putting in the effort to understand the silent struggles behind our eyes. It made me realize that even if teachers were born in different lifetimes or grew up with different struggles, it doesn't mean they don't care. They may never fully understand our exact journey because they didn't have anyone to understand theirs, but they are here now, holding the door open for us.

I am grateful for the chance to put my story into words—to create a "Shazam" of my future life, identifying the path ahead of me. I have learned the correct vocabulary and the right pronunciations, but the most important thing I have learned to say is my own truth. My journey from the humid streets of Kuala Lumpur to the hallways of Kent has taught me that change is hard, but my voice is powerful, and I intend to use it.

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